


Boy Scout

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: F/M, Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Pennyworth talks Derriman into taking a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy Scout

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Business Associates #3 under the pen name Laura Brush.

  _"Now_ this _is a cure."_

 

          Mrs. Pennyworth poured two cups of tea, her eyes carefully not looking at Suzanne.  "Would you like a ginger cookie?"

          "Why not," the microbiologist sighed.  "It's not like I have any reason to watch my figure around here."

          The older woman set the teapot aside and faded back to the counter where the freshly baked cookies cooled on several racks.  Stacking three on a small plate, she carried them back to the kitchen table and set them down.

          Suzanne picked up one and took a nibble.  "They're wonderful, as always."

          Mrs. Pennyworth removed her apron, hung it back on its waiting peg and sat down across the table from the sulking scientist.  "Why so glum, my dear?"

          Suzanne shook her head and shrugged, still nibbling on the cookie.

          "Men trouble?"

          "What men?" she asked.  "Harrison's too weird, Norton's too wired, and the Colonel's too…"

          "West Point."

          "Exactly," Suzanne agreed, looking up to meet Greta's amused expression.  "What?"

          "Well, that's three down.  What about the others?"

          "Others?"

          "The soldiers, my dear."

          "They're soldiers."  She set the remaining half of the cookie down.  "My father was Navy.  Uncle Hank's Army, and Uncle Scott's Air Force.  I've been surrounded by the military my whole life."  She picked up the cookie and chomped half of it in a single bite.  "Maybe that's why I fell for Cash.  He was so…"

          "Not military."

          Suzanne nodded.  "Unfortunately, he was also a complete jerk."  She set the cookie quarter down.  "I'm just feeling sorry for myself – biological clock and all that."

          Mrs. Pennyworth refilled their tea cups.

          "Not that I want to have any more children.  Debi's enough, and with the aliens and the population problems…"

          "You need a beau."

          "I need new batteries."  Suzanne shook her head and finished the cookie.

          "You need a nice gentleman who enjoys taking sunset walks and Saturday picnics, somebody who will sit on the floor in front of the fireplace and rub your toes.  Someone who takes you to bed and is concerned about what you're feeling, or not feeling."

          "He only exists in the demented imagination of Walt Disney.  He'd have to be a romantic-poet-boy-scout.  There is no such thing."

          Mrs. Pennyworth chuckled.  "I wouldn't be too sure about that."

          "Well, if you find one, send him my way."  She looked up.  "Until then I'll stick to technology…"  Standing, Suzanne scooped up the two remaining cookies.  "…romance novels, and calories."

          Greta watched the microbiologist go, a sly smile on her face.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "John?  John, could you help me for a moment?"

          Derriman's eyes widened.  Mrs. Pennyworth was asking for his help… would they be chocolate chip?  Maybe oatmeal raisin, or the cinnamon sugar cookies he knew he was getting addicted to.

          "No problem, Mrs. P, I'll be right with you."

          She smiled and nodded, ducking back into the kitchen.

          Derriman hurried to the tack room, where he deposited the saddle he'd just finished soaping.  Heading back outside, he took a moment to wash up with the hose before making his way to the Cottage's kitchen door.  He knocked, then stepped in.

          Mrs. Pennyworth stood at the stove, just pulling out a sheet of something wonderful.  He couldn't see what it was, but his highly trained nose was saying it was in immediate need of a taste-test.

          "Need some help?" he asked.

          "Yes," she said, waving at him to have a seat at the table.

          It was a ritual they had perfected over the months he and the other soldiers had been at the Cottage.  He slid into a seat where a cup of coffee waited, along with an empty plate.  He took a sip of the steaming brew and waited.  A moment later the plate was filled with a hot cookie.

          "Smells wonderful."

          "It's ginger.  I'm trying a new recipe."

          Carefully picking up the still-hot pastry, he took a bite, his eyes closing in pleasure.  "Mmm," was the expert opinion.

          "Glad to hear it," she replied.

          He opened his eyes, surprised to find the older woman seated across the table from him.  "Is there something else you need?" he asked.

          "Oh, no," was the reassuring reply.  "I'm just a little tired.  Mind if I join you?"

          Derriman shook his head, his cheeks reddening slightly.  "No, ma'am.  I don't mind at all."

          The pair sat in companionable silence, each enjoying their cookie and coffee.

          "John, have you ever thought about settling down?"

          Derriman's eyes widened.  "An old war horse like me?"  He snorted.  "No woman in her right mind would have me, Greta."

          "Now that's not true, John.  You're a kind, gentle, and considerate man."

          The blush deepened.  "I'm a gruff, crude, and cantankerous man, you mean."

          "I'm serious.  Wouldn't you like to find the right girl?"

          Derriman shrugged.  "I guess I did, a long time ago, but now…"

          "You mean the aliens?"

          He shook his head.  "I mean I'm getting old."  He looked up, his expression softening.  "Hell, I'd like to retire, build myself a cozy little cabin, get married, and spend the days walkin' in the woods, listenin' to good music, sippin' fine wine."

          "And?"

          "And what?  This fight's too important to retire."

          "But that doesn't mean you can't enjoy a few of the finer things in life, John.  You should be… courting."

          He laughed – a low, rumbling bear-laugh.  "I don't think Norah or the Colonel or Mr. Drake would take it too kindly if I started courtin' her."

          "I wasn't referring to Norah."

          Derriman's eyes widened.  "You?"  He smiled.  "That might not be such a bad idea…"

          Mrs. Pennyworth felt her cheeks burn.  "No, but it's sweet of you to say so.  I mean Suzanne."

          "Dr. McCullough?"

          "You're practically a father to Debi."

          Derriman shook his head.  "Oh, no.  The Colonel's Missy's father figure, I'm just… an uncle of sorts."

          "That still doesn't tell me why Suzanne isn't someone you'd like to… know better."

          The headshake was more vehement.  "It's not that I don't think Dr. McCullough isn't a damned fine lookin' woman," he said hastily.  "She's about as pretty a lady I've run across, but she's… she's…"

          "Yes?"

          "She's a scientist.  She's educated.  She's the niece of a West Point General, for Christ's sake."  He stopped abruptly.  "I apologize, my mouth got the better of my good manners."

          "Oh, John, you think I haven't been around the Army long enough to have heard worse than that?"

          Derriman dipped his head, taking refuge in several sips from his coffee cup.

          "So, you do find Suzanne attractive?"

          He nodded.

          "And you like Debi."

          Another nod.

          "But you think she's… too much an officer's wife for you?"

          Derriman choked on his coffee, coughed, then reached for a napkin to wipe his mouth and eyes.  "Greta, what are you tryin' to do to me?"

          "Well, is she too much of an officer's wife?"

          "No," he replied, "actually she's not.  Seems like a real down to earth lady, when she lets herself have some fun."

          Mrs. Pennyworth stood and brought back more cookies.  "Have you ever thought about courting her?"

          Derriman opened his mouth to reply, then shut it.  He sat in silence for several seconds before reaching for a cookie and saying, "I can't say the idea didn't cross my mind a time or two, but she's, well, she's got Dr. Blackwood."

          "Oh, no, he's too far out for her."

          "And Mr. Drake."

          "Too young and carefree.  Besides, he's seeing Norah.  Suzanne needs a mature, responsible man, someone who knows the value of an evening stroll."

          "The Colonel—"

          "Is 'too West Point,' to quote the lady in question.  She needs someone who will pick her flowers just because it's the thing to do.  A man with a… slow hand, shall we say?"

          Derriman's cheeks flamed bright red.  "Greta, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to start a second career as a Jewish grandmother."

          The old operative smiled.  "I'm just trying to… create a little happiness."

          "That's not all you're creatin'," Derriman muttered softly.  "You get me to thinkin' like that and I'm gonna run up the cold water bill."

          "How about a picnic?"

          "Pardon?"

          "A picnic.  I could fix up a nice basket.  You could invite Suzanne along."

          "But—"

          "You could take Debi, too, at least the first time.  That would be a nice ice-breaker."

          "But—"

          "You could go down to the beach, let Debi practice with her surfboard while you and Suzanne get acquainted."

          "But—"

          "Perfect.  I'll have the basket ready for you at noon."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Derriman waved back to Debi.  Straddling her surfboard, the teen floated several yards out in the surf, waiting for a wave.  Next to him Suzanne shook her head.

          "Do you remember having that much energy?" she asked.

          Derriman shook his head.  "Too depressin'."

          "Amen," was the microbiologist's heartfelt reply.

          Turning his head just slightly, Derriman admired the woman sitting next to him.  Wearing shorts and a tank top, it was obvious that she was in good physical shape.  The tan was healthy and natural, bringing out the freckles on her cheeks.  He'd always had a soft spot for girls with freckles…

          He looked away.  Suzanne McCullough was definitely a damned fine looking woman.  He glanced back, catching the curve of her full breast.  He blushed.

          Suzanne laughed, watching Debi try and paddle forward fast enough to catch a small wave.  "I miss spending time like this," she said wistfully, then looked at Derriman.  "Do you have a family?"

          "No, ma'am," Derriman replied with a shake of his head.

          "Please, call me Suzanne.  'Ma'am' makes me feel old, and I feel old enough right now."

          "I apologize," John said quickly.  "And you're too young to feel old."

          Suzanne's eyes widened and she laughed again.  It was a pretty sound, he decided, like water rippling over smooth rocks.

          "I don't feel young," she admitted.

          "Well, take my word for it, you are.  Why, if I hadn't been told, I would have thought Debi was your little sister."

          Suzanne dipped her head.  "That's nice of you to say, but—"

          "It's true.  You're a very attractive lady," John said, then realized that she was smiling at him.  "Uh, I mean— I—"

          "Thank you," Suzanne said.  "It's been a long time since I've heard that."

          Derriman's shoulders inched back.  "Well, then, someone ought to have his ass—"  His eyes rounded.  "I'm sorry.  I—"

          Suzanne laughed again, and he felt the blood rushing to his face.

          "Mom!  Mom!"

          Derriman silently thanked whatever gods watched out for tongue-tied old sergeants for the interruption.

          "What is it, Chicken?"

          "Can I paddle out to the rock finger?" she asked, nodding at a pointed rock that jutted up about one-hundred yards off the beach.

          "I guess so…"

          "Be careful," Derriman told her.

          "I will.  Thanks, Mom!"

          Turning, Debi ran back into the surf with the board.  Splashing out into the water, she flopped down on the board and started for the landmark.

          "I appreciate all the time you and Paul put in with Debi," Suzanne said quietly.  "When we first got here she was missing her father quite a bit.  It's made the situation much easier for her."

          "Our pleasure," Derriman assured her.  "She's a good kid."

          Suzanne turned her head, sweeping a wayward strand of hair off her cheek before asking, "So, haven't you found the right woman?"

          Derriman swallowed before he replied with a shrug.  "Not much of an opportunity to look, to tell you the truth."

          Suzanne nodded.  "I know the feeling."

          "Why, I'll bet you had them lined up and taking numbers," he said.

          She shook her head.  "No.  I was always too smart, or too cold, or—"

          "Cold?"

          She shrugged.  "I was shy, I guess, but it came across as cold.  Maybe it was just the walls I'd had to build up to compete in a man's world."

          "Didn't date much, did you?"

          "No," she admitted.  "I was a Navy brat.  We moved so much it was next to impossible to make friends, let alone find a boyfriend.  By the time I got to college I'd fixated on my studies."  She watched Debi, waving when the girl reached the formation and climbed up with her board in tow.  "Maybe that's why I fell for Cash.  He just wouldn't leave me alone.  It was the first time a boy— a man had ever… wanted me."

          "I'll bet that's not true.  I'll bet there were lots of boys and men who were interested, they just didn't know how to get your attention."

          "Well, it's over now, and too late."

          "Too late for what?"

          Suzanne shrugged and shook her head.  "Sorry, I've been in a funk."

          "Well, then, what you need is a sure-fire funk cure."

          She looked over her shoulder, a perplexed expression on her face.  "A funk cure?"

          He nodded theatrically.  "Yep, it's an old family secret, handed down through the generations.  Rumor has it the cure originated in the highlands of Scotland over a particularly cold, long winter season."

          Suzanne grinned.  "Oh, and just what does this cure entail?"

          "Well, now, that's supposed to be a family secret, but seeing as how my mission is to help the Blackwood Project in any way I can, and you're the prettiest member of that Project, I think I can bend tradition… just this once."

          Her eyes twinkled, and he wondered what it would be like to lean forward and kiss the inviting pink lips.

          "And?"

          He glanced cautiously around, making sure no one was there to overhear.  Suzanne giggled.

          "Meet me in the living room tonight at ten and I'll show you."

          "The living room?"

          He nodded.

          "At ten?"

          Another nod.

          "Okay, I'll bite."

          Derriman smiled.  _Greta, I swear I'll cut your apron strings for this_ , he thought.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Suzanne examined herself in her bedroom mirror.  What was she thinking?  What was she doing?

          "This is silly," she whispered to herself.  "This is _not_ a date, it's just a… date." She sighed.

          Staring at her reflection, she shook her head.  "You're grasping at straws."

          But she had given her word, and it would be rude to stand John up.

John?  When had he become John?

          When they were sitting on the beach watching Debi?  When they were walking back?  When they swung by the stable and he had taken her riding?

          Not that he wasn't… cute?

          No.

          Handsome?

          Not exactly.

          Attractive?

          Yes.

          She smiled.  John Derriman was attractive.  He was… comfortable.  Solid.

          But not in a dull way.  He made her long for a hug.  A long, quiet night curled up in his arms on the couch in front of the fire…

          "Stop!" she scolded herself.  "You're reading too many Harlequins."

          Smoothing down her velour sweater, she tucked her hair back behind her ears and turned away from the mirror.  It was time to go make polite conversation and end the evening.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Derriman glanced nervously around the now prepared living room.  Everything was in place.  And, with any luck, there would be no interruptions.  Mr. Drake was over at the Coach House with Norah.  Dr. Blackwood was testing the computer hacker's latest video game, and Ironhorse was up to his armpits with all the reports he'd dropped off on his way to the living room.

          The lights were off.  A fire snapped on the hearth, two glasses sat waiting with brandy and cinnamon sticks.  A plaid tartan was draped over one end of the couch closest to the fire.  It was ready.

          He swallowed nervously.

          "John?"

          "Uh, hi," he said, silently cursing himself for his lack of finesse.

          Suzanne walked into the glow of the fire and he sucked in a breath.  She looked beautiful in faded blue jeans, a loose forest green sweater, her hair down and framing her face.

          She stepped closer, noticing the brandy and tartan.  "Is this your cure?"

          He looked down, suddenly embarrassed.  "It's all part of the cure.  Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the couch.

          Suzanne walked over, nodding at the cloth, her eyes questioning.

          "Yep, sit on that blanket," he directed.

          Suzanne slid past the soldier and sat down on the tartan.  Once she was settled, he stepped up and wrapped the blanket around her legs.  Then he handed her one of the glasses.

          Suzanne sniffed at the glass.  "Mmm, that's different."

          "Try it."

          She took a sip.  "That's good."

          He took a sip and smiled.  "Never fails."

          "A fire, a blanket, and a drink.  I like the cure."

          "But you haven't seen the main ingredient yet."

          "Oh?"

          Suzanne twisted slightly as John walked behind the couch.  "No.  Just watch the fire," he directed.

          She turned back, staring into the dancing flames.  Strong hands gripped her shoulders, fingers rubbing into the tension that knotted her muscles.  She sighed and relaxed into the sensation.  Occasionally she sipped at the warm, spiced brandy.

          The fingers moved over her shoulders, massaging across her collarbones and down her back as far as he could reach.  She finished the drink, not noticing that the empty glass was lifted from her hand and returned to the coffee table.

          Fingers worked their way up the back of her neck.  She moaned quietly.  "That feels wonderful," she murmured.

          Wrapped in the warmth of the blanket, brandy, and fire-glow she felt her body melt into that relaxed state she'd thought long forgotten.  Her eyes remained closed.  "Now _this_ is a cure."

          "Glad you like it."

          John let his touch grow softer, stroking down Suzanne's long, slender neck.  She shifted, letting her head rest in his hands.  He cupped her head with one palm, and with the other reached up, stroking her forehead.

          "Oh my…"

          "Shhh," he whispered, caressing her cheeks, chin.  Then, before the courage was lost he leaned over her shoulder and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

          Suzanne's eyes flew open.

          Derriman took a step back.  "I'm— I'm sorry.  That was—"

          "Nice."

          "Nice?"

          "Very nice."

          He studied his cowboy boots.  "It was presumptuous as hell, and I—"

          Suzanne tossed the tartan back and stood.  Stepping around the couch she stopped in front of John.  He looked up, meeting her gaze.  A short step and her hip pressed against his, her arms circling him.  He returned the hug, burying his face in her hair and enjoying the fresh, slightly honeysuckle smell.

          Her fingers gently squeezed his shoulder blades.  He was solid, but there was an undercurrent of gentleness that attracted her.  "We need to talk," she said softly.  "About what we're feeling."

          He nodded against her neck, then pulled back.  "I'd like to kiss you," he said softly.

          She nodded.

          Derriman leaned forward, watching as Suzanne's eyes closed.  As his lips met hers, his eyes closed as well.

          It was soft, hard.  It was passionate, gentle.

          They took a step back, each slightly embarrassed and excited.  He gestured to the couch.  "Best we have that talk."

          She nodded.  Extending her hand, she took his and squeezed, then led him to the couch.  They sat.

          "This is so fast," Suzanne said softly.

          He nodded.  "I don't want you hurt.  This mission—"

          "I know."  She shifted, leaning into his shoulder.  "John, I don't know if I'm ready for a relationship."

          "How about a friendship?"

          She smiled and nodded.  "I think I can handle that."

          "I know it's old-fashioned, but where I come from it's called courtin'."

          Suzanne laughed.  "Well, let's just take it slow and see where we end up."

          "Slow's the way I like it," Derriman said softly.  He squeezed her closer.

          "Me, too."

The End


End file.
